


different day, different me

by GetTheFreakingSalt



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood-centric, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetTheFreakingSalt/pseuds/GetTheFreakingSalt
Summary: mornings are the clearest way to tell the difference between alec lightwood and alexander





	

Alec Lightwood wakes up instantly.

He doesn’t need an alarm, and it doesn’t matter that his room is still dark – if it’s between 5:55am and 6:10am, it’s time to be up. He swings himself out of bed, bare feet making contact with cold wood floor, and he shivers.

If it’s before 6, he has time for a shower; he showers quickly, doesn’t allow himself to gain any pleasure from it. If it’s not, it’s straight to shaving and dressing. The one luxury in his room - his coffee machine - automatically sets and finishes brewing by 6:15. He pours himself a cup at 6:20, and is ready and out the door by 6:30. It’s methodical, it’s efficient.

He hates waking up.

—–

Alexander wakes up gradually.

It starts when the early morning light gets strong enough to light up the room, whatever time that is. He wakes up a little more when the few rays that the curtains actually let through become enough to heat his skin – this is his favourite part, when he’s just conscious enough to notice the warm, soft yet solid body beneath him. Most mornings he registers the dull ache of use in his muscles, sometimes in his ass, sometimes in his hips, always in his thighs, and that wakes him up a little more. He registers his bare chest, half on top of and pressed against another bare chest. He registers his face, buried into the space where neck meets _deliciously_ broad shoulder; the arm, wrapped around his back and cupping his hip; his arm, thrown over the rest of the chest he wasn’t covering and being used as a pillow by another face – _Magnus, beautiful, wonderful, his Magnus_.

He wakes up more when he begins to notice sounds. Outside, the sounds of the city, reduced to mere background noise in this sanctum. The sounds of the apartment around him blur in with the background track of cars and people below. The sound he notices most, cherishes most, is Magnus’s soft snores, intermingling with his own breath. He breathes in, the scent of sandalwood and sex, and hears the unmistakable groan of someone who was _definitely not a morning person, Alexander._

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to move, dragging himself slowly upwards and seeking out lips with his own. He kisses, slowly and open mouthed, and is kissed back, and he tastes… whatever indefinable thing Magnus tastes like. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to taste Magnus, but if he does, he sees golden, bleary cat’s eyes, looking blissful, like they’ve never been as happy as they are now, in this lazy moment with him. And if he does, that’s when he really wakes up.

“Good morning, my love.”

He loves waking up, as long as he can wake up with Magnus.


End file.
